Treasure Planet: the Procyon Wars
by Makori
Summary: Set in TP universe.  The Procyon Wars were the most destructive and devastating in known history. Follow the conflict from the eyes of the Imperial Royal Marines of the 107th Marine Brigade as they fight to survive the trenches, the enemy and themselves.
1. Prologue

**Treasure Planet: the Procyon Wars**

**Prologue**

"_The Procyon Wars, though they had no real official name, were undoubtedly one of the bloodiest and lengthiest conflicts in the history of the Empire. Though spanning for many decades, there were brief periods of peace where each side would slowly recoup their losses, rebuild their armies and then the fighting would begin again only a few years later. It was a battle of attrition, one which neither could get a complete advantage over the other, while hundreds of thousands of soldiers, sailors and civilians lost their lives to the tides of unending battle…"_

_~excerpt from 'Soldiers and Their Stories'_

Imperial Calendar 5.77.312

0641 hours

Karinhaus VI, Imperial Trenchline Station 19

107th Marine Brigade

Current Status: under attack

"BARRAGE INCOMING!"

It was a cry that every marine in the trench had become accustomed to, the whistling of laser balls high overhead as they came smashing down to send a plume of scorched earth high into the air. The burning stench of energy weapons discharging came to the nostrils of every soldier as they rose again, rifles cracking and sending bolts of blue light whizzing out into the haze, searching for the enemy. In response, green blasts licked out at the trenches, kicking up dust and dirt in small fountains. A heavy repeater opened up somewhere further down the line, and small explosions of laser bolts shone in the smoke, accompanied by the cries of wounded and dying. An enemy missile suddenly streaked out of the fog of war, whizzing past the repeater position and smacking into the side of a bunker, vaporizing the building in a blast of plasma. A section of trench was suddenly obliterated by a laser ball, sending plumes of smoke and what little remained of the soldiers who had been there into the air. However, the blast was contained by the diagonal shape of the Imperial lines.

A roar of war-fuelled rage suddenly rang out from the smoke and soup of other chemicals, and a second later the shout of "Infantry charge incoming! Fix bayonets and get ready!" Another battle cry lifted from the ragged Imperial lines, and they leveled their laser rifles against the wall of the trench, ready and waiting for the enemy, blades glistening on the dirty muzzles.

And, sure enough, from out of the smoke, they came. They were dressed for this kind of fight, grey trench coats and black helmets with the horse-mane crest colored white to blend against the normally clear sky. Dirty, grimy, furred and mud-caked faces roared, and thick, stocky rifles fired from hips. This was the ferocity of an infantry charge on a trench, the swarm to overwhelm the defenders and seize the dugouts and bunkers. Numbers and sheer tenacity made up for the lack of armor and the large amount of losses any day.

A wall of blue fire streaked out from the Imperial lines, meeting the Procyon charge with volley after volley of laser fire, cutting down men where they stood, sending them sprawling to the ground. The heavy repeater opened up at the same time several plasma grenades detonated, punching enormous holes in the charge. And yet still they came, shaken by the loss of so many of their fellows but still not deterred, closing with the trenches with frightening speed, a war cry on their lips and fingers pulling triggers.

The Procyons fell on the Imperial line, diving atop of the marines, tossing grenades or firing over and over from the lip. Red jackets were punched with scorching holes, blood of all colors spraying the trench walls and other bodies simply shredded to pieces. But the Imperials weren't done yet. The marines fought back with gun, sword and bare hands, slicing back into the Procyon troopers with a fury and swiftness that quickly overwhelmed the raccoons. Lesser trained and experienced units would have folded under such a ferocious assault, but the 107th closed ranks again, raising their guns to meet the second wave, already charging forward to finish them off. This time, they were accompanied by the lurching hulks of several of their assault walkers, six legged armored machines that fired laser bolts powerful enough to disable a Navy vessel. Bunkers exploded, men and women were torn to shreds, and entrenched armor was boiled away by the violent assault.

"Armored charge! Get your asses up there and counter attack!"

The only way infantry could attack fighting machines and walkers was to close with them and execute the crew or strap explosives on a limb, wheel or tread. But to do that this time, they'd have to kill the Procyon troopers.

The marines hollered their "Ooh-rah!" war-cry, swarming up over the trenches and smashing into the Procyon attack, devolving the fight into a vicious melee with knives, spades, swords and bayonets. Here, in close combat, numbers and willpower won out over weaponry and tactics nine times out of ten, and this was just the case. Stocks and blades slammed and sliced respectively, cutting the raccoons apart before the marines, who finally cleaved through the troopers, resuming their charge on the assault walkers, which were already closing with startling speed. Heavy repeaters opened up from the walkers, cutting down running figures in red jackets and white breeches, black boots covered in mud slipping out from under lifeless corpses and black helmets punctured through, vaporizing the skulls and brains within. But it was to no avail, as the marines finally closed to deal some real damage. Magnetic explosives were tossed onto limbs and chassis, detonating spectacularly and laying several machines low, their crews bailing out or simply erupting into fireballs. Needless to say, those Procyons who tried to run for it were swiftly cut down. Other marines who did not have the ordnance to take the walkers out with one clean throw clambered up the walkers, blasting open the hatches and pouring laser fire into the cockpits. Finally, all the assault walkers ground to a halt, useless wrecks now, nothing more.

A lieutenant stood, waving his sword over his head and yelling "C'mon! Counter attack!" Several whistles blew, sounding the charge. From behind the marines already out, the reserve marines poured out of the trenches, and the blurred shapes of fast moving cavalry surged forth, followed by the slower and less mobile heavy repeaters and field guns hauled by their crews. A squad of gunboats soared overhead and was quickly lost in the smoke, but the explosions of dropped ordnance and the high-pitched whine of Procyon weapons fire rang out, causing flashes in the fog of war.

A young marine ran up to the lieutenant, yelling "We finally going to crack 'em, sir?"

The officer shook his head, huffing as he tried to keep up with the other soldiers. "Who knows? This is the third time the Procyons have struck this week! I swear to Gods, if we don't get –something- out of this I'll smack the first general I see!"

The marine trooper and officer sprinted alongside each other as a wave of crimson finally breached the smoke, their comrades already engaged in the same hell they had visited on the Procyons. This time, however, the Imperials were making greater headway. The enemy general had made a critical mistake, committing too many soldiers to his charge and not leaving enough to defend against a counter-attack. Already, marines were dropping into the trenches, slicing and firing as they cut down raccoons left and right. The Procyon defense was hasty, slap-dash and imperfectly made, causing Imperial soldiers to easily penetrate the line and move through the trenches, trapping enemy squads in trenches and bunkers, cutting them down without remorse. There would be no surrendering or prisoners taken here. In this war, no quarter was ever given, or ever expected.

Several Procyon troopers rushed out of a bunker, only to get cut down by fire from the left, right and even above as the Imperials moved to surround and annihilate them. One made it out of the kill zone, slamming his back against the planking of another trench, breathing heavily and clutching his pulse rifle as he prepared to leap around the corner and return fire. Before he could, however, he felt something intrude his body, slicing deep into his chest. He looked down, suddenly feeling so week as he spotted the knife in his heart, a grimy black-gloved fist gripped around the haft. The fist tensed and the wrist flexed, twisting the knife deeper. The raccoon looked up, blinking blearily as he looked the marine in the face. Or, what would have been the man's face had it not been obscured by a pair of green-lens goggles and a black facemask, robbing that face of any sentient thought or emotion whatsoever. Absently, he noted that the coal-colored helmet on the marine's head was lined with white around the rim and edges, covered in blood and mud but still visible. The emblem of the Empire was also there on that helmet, in just as bad condition.

And then the Procyon died on that knife.

The Royal Imperial Marine Corps of Her Majesty's Empire battled on that trenchline for another four hours before complete line penetration was achieved. A week later and the Procyons would be abandoning that entire stretch of fortification, forced to retreat at least sixty miles to reach the next one and dig in again. The Royal Navy bombarded the Procyons from above as well as did battle with the enemy ships.

But here, in this very moment, the Imperial Marines knew nothing but war.


	2. Home in the Trenches

(From the Author: okay, so I can see I've got some of you interested. Welcome to my little side project! I am very much in love with Treasure Planet, and as it happens to when I see something I love, my mind just started racing to fill in many, many, many things never seen and or mentioned. The Battle for Procyon just whetted my appetite with the Royal Navy. But no Royal Marines? Surely a war that has lasted centuries between two advanced nations wouldn't just be in space, right? This is what my brain filled in. I'm hoping you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

The Procyon Wars, as in the story, takes place about five or six years before Treasure Planet, ten years before the game itself. It's nearing the end of the conflict, and if naval warfare is much like that from the 19th century, I thought that ground warfare should reflect how far the fighting has come with a First World War surrounding and style.)

* * *

**Treasure Planet: the Procyon Wars**

**Chapter One: Home in the Trenches**

"_Undoubtedly, life in the trenches is another style completely. See, a military base depending on a network of trenchworks is completely different than, say, an airbase or one out on the plains. Those have the buildings inside the defenses; while in a trench base the buildings –are- the defenses, defenses where marines and troopers might spend years at a time in. In essence, when you attack a trenchline, the soldiers there aren't just defending themselves; they're defending their home, too."_

_~excerpt from 'Trench Warfare: a Marine's Biography'_

Imperial Calendar 9.31.313

0638 hours

Karinhaus VI, Imperial Trenchline Station 61 aka "the Box"

107th Marine Brigade

Current Status: Neutral

Karinhaus was a relatively unimportant solar system. Discovered in the last century and colonized only three decades ago, it was considered a neutral zone, and the sixth planet didn't have much going for it and not much found on it. Why the Empire and Procyons would be fighting so badly over it was anyone's guess, but some of the veterans could tell you why: appearances. With the war as a whole grinding to a stalemate, the Empire needed victories, and Karinhaus had been promised as a quick, decisive, easy win. What happened instead was seven years of crushing, grinding attrition warfare, as the Procyons threw one of their star armadas at the system.

It had started easily enough. The 54th Battlefleet had stormed into the system carrying almost a hundred thousand marines between them, wiping out the light Procyon ship picket around Karinhaus VI with no losses. Then, ground operations began, and city after city fell beneath the black heels of Imperial marines. But the planet threw another interesting twist at the Empire. As well as the Procyon Ground Forces to fight against, the locals had also taken up arms and begun resisting Her Majesty's Empire with everything they could. What was worse, while the marines were engaged, the Procyon's 1st Combat Flotilla had stormed in system, and the struggle began in earnest.

Now, seven years later, this system alone had soaked up almost a million lives on both sides, a draining and fatiguing effort that neither side could pull back from, lest they risk severe defacement and demoralization back in their home systems. It was a battle that neither side could nor afford to lose, and it was drawing more and more resources from more important fights. Sooner or later, the battle for Karinhaus would need to be decided, or else both factions would risk their entire assembled might collapsing around exhausted supply lines and lack of ships or troops.

On the ground, Karinhaus' surface had been turned into a muddy nightmare. Miles of forest had been obliterated by artillery, incendiary strikes and armored battles. Long stretches of trenchline snaked away as far as the eye could see across the continents, and the cities were little more than collections of rubble. The war for this planet had waged so long and swung around so many times that the people had finally given up on trying for a liberation effort. Now, they simply sat around, watching as the soldiers changed, but the effect didn't. Their world was under siege, and it didn't look to be ending anytime soon.

* * *

Imperial Trenchline Station 61 was located in Gamma Quadrant, outside a city called Reinford. This place was an important river crossing, for the water beneath ran fast and was too wide or deep to be forded. As such, neither side aimed anywhere near the bridge itself, for fear of wrecking it for further use. Otherwise, the next nearest river crossing was about forty miles upstream, at a mountain pass where it was even riskier to even try to ford. The bridge itself had been patched up and repaired by the varying occupying troops so much that they'd started leaving signatures in tags on it. Red for the Imperials, blue for the Procyons. A few conversations could be found here and there, awkwardly scrawled out in the other side's language, asking about names, families, ways of life. It was one of the only true victories of taking back this city, of seeing if your message got a reply.

Station 61 was currently held by the 107th Marine Brigade, a force of about a thousand strong. They were severely under strength, of course, and had long been promised reinforcements since they had first taken the city back in Spring of that year, but it had come in bits and pieces. Survivors from other units or small batches of new recruits came trickling in, and most of the new troops had never lasted long. Every time the Procyons had mounted an offensive, it was assured that most of the marines who had not yet caught on to the way war was waged here were wiped out, or those who were tired and bedraggled finally punched their cards and then more empty spaces were noted on the colonel's terminal. The commander of this brigade was a tough, grizzled canid named Colonel Welburt Fuller, a veteran from the Lagoon Nebula. Fuller was a no-nonsense soldier, one to stick by the rulebook ninety-nine percent of the time. But, at the same time, that one percent that he broke regulation had saved hundreds of men in his time of command.

Fuller was well aware of his standing orders; hold the line at all costs and do not allow the Procyons to retake the bridge through Reinford. They never even mentioned the name of the damned river, and Fuller had never felt like asking the locals to find out. Instead, he did what he had every other day; he stepped from his tent into the muggy, cold morning of Karinhaus autumn. He'd been on this lousy planet all seven years of the conflict and had gained two promotions in that time. He didn't wear his medals, not because he wasn't proud but because he felt the deeds spoke more than a piece of tin did.

As he always did in the mornings, Fuller consulted TAD, his Tactical Assistance Database, a robot issued to all Imperial Marine command groups to act as a communications suite, map storage computer, unit dossier, roster checklist and all the other little things a unit needed to survive.

"Good morning, TAD," Fuller said gruffly as he finished tugging his uniform together.

TAD 493-0169-21-1 sprang to attention, an arm snapping up to it's egg-shaped head as it chirped back "_Good morning, Colonel! Welcome to Day two-thousand, seven-hundred, thirty-four of the Karinhaus Campaign, Imperial calendar! Time is now oh-six thirty-eight hours, sir! Battlements was sounded one hundred and sixty-eight minutes ago and shift change sounded at ninety-eight minutes ago, as per your orders! Situation normal, sir!"_

As they always were, the TAD units were quite over-enthusiastic about their jobs and the status of the war. The call to battlements at dawn and dusk in case of the Procyons launched a low light attack was all Fuller wanted to hear about, and he was always relieved to hear nothing occur. A battle in half-darkness was even more terrifying than one in the daylight.

Fuller returned TAD's salute, moving towards his office, set in the crumbling city hall. "Anything on the list, Tad? Anything noteworthy?"

"_Of course, Colonel! Artillery shells were reported striking enemy lines last night at around oh-two fifty-one hours and a returning barrage launched exactly twenty-one minutes later! Destination of shells unknown, but we were not the target. Two more marines have died due to severe wounds, and six more have succumbed to illness. Four more marines have been rated with shellshock and are pending your approval to be dispatched back to Commodore medivac for psychiatric treatment."_

Fuller groaned as he entered his busy command center. Every day it was something worse. The ten marines lost the night before was actually an astonishingly low figure, as grim as that was, but what Fuller was more concerned of was the artillery barrage. The Procyons had chosen to concentrate on other places than the Box, even though it was one of the most important strategic targets on the continent. Could the coons be preparing for a full offensive?

"Anything else?" he asked as he finally reached his office, flopping down behind his desk tiredly.

"_One more thing, Colonel. Reinforcements have been dispatched from Commodore and were expected to arrive T-plus four minutes ago. Reinforcements are therefore currently delayed, but en route."_

Fuller paused before returning to his work, muttering "Gods help them, whoever they are."

* * *

Imperial gunboats were simplistic pieces of technology. Wide and large, they were bristling with heavy repeaters and missile pods, ready to rain fire and death on the unfortunate enemy below. Their only opposition in the skies were the faster longboats, which could easily blast them down with heavy repeaters, or ships of the line as well that had dipped in-atmosphere to hunt for targets. But gunboats also had another purpose than just fire support. In order to dispatch the multitudes of marines a war needed, they had to be packed into these large craft, which could hold about fifty soldiers at a time, assuming they were about humanoid size and weight.

The surface of Karinhaus streaked by underneath gunboat X1007, also known as "Verdantus," coasting towards a small blip on the horizon. A hand shaded almond shaped eyes from the sun, squinting towards it. She knew that little blip was supposed to be a city, protected by Trenchline Station 61. Having done her homework correctly, she knew the station was known as "the Box" for its high mortality rate on both sides. Reinford was, quite possibly, the deadliest place to be right now. Which is exactly why she chose to be posted there.

Lieutenant Rebecca Avernall lowered her hand, eyes blinking as she stared towards Reinford. It didn't help that the sun was just coming up and she was forced to look in its direction to view her destination. The fogbanks of early morning Karinhaus rolled over the plains, further distorting her view of the city, but what she could see wasn't good. Numerous coils of smoke rose from the buildings, and everywhere around it like much of the planet itself was scorched and blasted from the years of brutal fighting. Even from this distance, Rebecca thought she could see the ruined husks of destroyed fighting armor, long since wrecked in battles before, but that might have just been a trick on her mind.

The distance closed fast, but not as fast as she would have liked. The sailor at the controls kept peering around, and his buddies at the weapons were doing the same, watching for Procyon attack craft that could swoop out of nowhere and kill them all. To their credit, the blue-jacketed Navy men had the right idea, but Rebecca was a marine officer, fresh out of academy. She wanted to get down on the ground as soon as possible, rather than lose speed to keep a close eye on the sky. Of course, she wasn't so thrilled about her first deployment being to one of the worst hellholes in the entire war, but there was really nothing she could do about it. In a way, actually, she was anticipating it greatly, a chance to live the life of a warrior like her own mother. Almost all felinid soldiers were females, as males were naturally not inclined to do much more than bully and breed, staying behind to manage their clans on their home planets like crime lords.

Abruptly, Verdantus dipped beneath the fog-banks, sliding into the soup over the ground, and Rebecca could see row upon row of dead trees, splintered and wrecked where they had been blasted, and old, abandoned trenchworks that would almost certainly be used again when the line shifted once more. Rebecca was shocked and slightly disgusted to see the half-rotten corpses of Imperial Marines and Procyon troopers in and around the trenches, most of them stripped of their equipment but a few wearing the distinctive red jacket or a horse mane helmet, respectively. Did soldiers have no respect for the dead, looting the corpses of comrades instead of giving them proper burials?

She prayed that her new brigade would not be so barbaric.

* * *

Truly there was no more genius invention than the smoking pipe. Some people claimed that cigarettes (the so-called "deathsticks") were much more fulfilling, more recent, more 'hip', but a pipe was every marine's dream on the front lines. For the same price as a cigarette and for half the damage to your lungs, you could keep getting the substance and fill your pipe with it, over and over again. Cigarettes were too easy to damage, too easy to get addicted to, especially with their safety ignition strips that you just pulled off the end. But a pipe was the real way to steady the nerves in the trenches.

He sucked in another draught, let it sit in his lungs before inhaling a breath and forcing the acrid smoke deeper, then released it, causing a cloud to escape his mouth, tasting the tang of tobacco, nicotine and things he knew shouldn't be going into his lungs but he'd burned anyway because he didn't have enough of either of the former. The smoke rolled away into the chill air, mixing with the fog and smoke of the city and disappearing from sight. He shifted, slightly, feeling the crate he was sitting on sink a little deeper into the mud. The floors of trenchlines were covered in planks to help soldiers walk, but this one had been expanded by a stray plasma mortar that had landed in the trench itself and vaporized a half dozen marines. Now this part had an unusual bowl shape to it, and he sat on a crate that had been tossed in to make a seat, letting the smoke from his pipe waft up. He'd joined the marines young, as soon as he'd turned seventeen, and though you'd hear him curse and moan about the conditions the 107th went through he still thought it was the right decision to make. He hadn't much choice, after all, it was either this or turn to the streets and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He scratched blearily at his eye, yawning widely. 'Early to bed, early to rise,' that was the saying. Except here in the Box it was more like 'late to bed, early to rise.' Colonel Fuller had extended the shifts again, and no one could blame him. Between all the losses they'd taken in the last offensive and this current holding pattern they didn't have the men to cover regular shifts. Most brigades had three, maybe four shifts where marines would report to the trenches and stand watch. The 107th had just two. It was brutal work, no sleep, barely any food, cold pressing in on all sides, no chance of hygienic care and the constant threat of Procyon attack. Speaking of which, where the hell did they keep coming from? It was like the coons never ran out of meat to throw into the grinder, and while the Imperials were getting slogged down and disheartened the enemy was getting fiercer and faster.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned, looking up at Lieutenant Drake's face. Like him, Drake was human, and like him he sported a thick beard, having been unable to shave in months. No one really wanted to, actually. The facial hair kept the cheeks warm, and with winter approaching they'd need all the heat they could get.

"C'mon," Drake said, jerking his head back towards the city. "Fuller wants to see you."

That gave him pause for thought, but only for a moment. Fuller had only wanted to see him on two occasions. The first was to announce that, with the loss of one of his platoon's more distinguished sergeants he was to be promoted from Lance Corporal to take the empty space. The second time…

Todd Anderson tried to put it from his mind, nodding and tipping his pipe over, dumping the last few burning cinders into the mud before tucking it into his jacket pocket. Lieutenant Ryan Drake was technically his platoon commander, even if Todd's holotags said he was in a group that no longer existed. Both Drake and Anderson were survivors, having achieved their ranks at the age of twenty-three and twenty respectively simply by being alive while the men next to them had died. Ryan Drake had been a mere Lance Corporal himself when Private Todd Anderson had come to Karinhaus, and the two had stuck side by side through the years. Todd had been on Karinhaus for four years. Ryan had lasted almost twice as long.

They ducked and weaved their way through the trenches, keeping their heads down though they were well below the lip. Marines stood on the firing step, peering out into No Man's Land through their green goggles and watching for signs of the enemy. The Procyon trenchworks were a few thousand metres away, well within mortar distance but almost an impossible stretch for a laser rifle without a scope to help your aim. The pair didn't straighten again until they were out of the forward trench and in the communications trench, buried underground and stretching back towards the chambers where food, ammunition and other supplies were stored for the marines on duty. The tunnels were bustling with activity as runners moved back and forth to deliver notices. Comms devices were hard to come by out here, and most of those were reserved for the frontline commanders so they could link back to headquarters. Only those of the rank captain and up were given the precious transmitters, and they cared for them like their first born child.

Even after emerging from the tunnels and bunkers back behind the trenchline, the walk back to Reinford took a good half-hour. Colonel Fuller, fortunately, was a canid with a lot of patience, something you needed when in a command position. The stretch between the fortifications and where the 107th had built up their barracks at the edge of the city was full of rubble, broken down structures and a buckling road. Local scavenger animals and vagrant peoples lurked in the shadows, looking for scraps to eat or steal, but fortunately smart enough to not even attempt to assault the pair of soldiers. The road always had heavy traffic, and today was no exception. A full compliment of cavalry hurried by on delilahs, the large bipedal amphibians used as animals of labor around the Empire. They weren't that bright, which made them easy to train, but they were tough, fast and bounding with energy. The hussars that straddled them carried laser pistols and blades sheathed at their belts, gloved hands gripping the reins tightly. Unlike frontline infantry, hussars wore a full facemask strapped on over their features, and had no helmets. Instead, they wore caps like fighting machine drivers, but these were high and peaked, with the emblem of the Empire sitting snugly at the forehead. In the city, several field guns suddenly opened up, sending laser balls screaming through the air towards the Procyon lines. The bombardment was light, as was expected, and the answer would be just as futile. Both sides didn't care much to actually score damage with this waste of ammunition, so the balls hardly ever scored casualties. Instead, the gunmen were simply upholding their orders from command to keep pressure on the opposing line with occasional barrages. The rate of fire and intensity of such barrages was never mentioned, so the commanders were free to do as they pleased.

The pair finally made it back to the actual city itself, where buildings were held up by more than just ramshackle supports and a prayer to the inhabitants' deity. The people moved about on the sidewalks in a stupor, not believing or not wanting to see the soldiers moving through the streets themselves. The few remaining civilians in the place knew, and had been reminded constantly, that if they got along with the current occupier and simply stayed out of the way, they would be allowed to live their lives. Local currency was worthless now, however, and almost all jobs had been shut down. Only a third of the civilians still remained, and they watched the change in armies from year to year as if watching the seasons go by. They were scrappy, thin things, and the native inhabitants, short and stocky toad-like creatures called anurans, were more than used to the multitude of species that bustled through here, time after time. Whether it was humans, felinids and canids with the Empire or the Procyons and their own allied species, it never seemed to change to them.

The city hall loomed before the marines, and an MP outside nodded, looking just as bedraggled as the frontliners as he opened the door. He was an enormous bull of a creature, a species Todd couldn't place, but he put it from his mind as he stepped inside. The command center was a hive of activity as robots and clerks hustled to organize files, answer communiqués and process tactical data. Over on the left, two women were pouring over several holographic pads and comparing them to figures scribbled on sheets of paper. On the right, a half-dozen clerks suddenly snapped to as the gargantuan Major Hustrand strode over, bellowing about some inaccuracy and holding a report in each of his eight arms. The two marines kept striding past, finally reaching Colonel Fuller's office at the end of the hallway. A brief knock and the call of "Enter," quickly found them inside.

Fuller was a modest man, given to few possessions. On the walls were a few holoprojectors of himself and his comrades on loop reels, acting out some scene in a long gone place. The desk had a small projector that said "Colonel W. Fuller" as well as a stack of holopads. Over to the left stood the colonel's TAD, who stood at attention as he always did. But there was someone new to the place. A felinid, a tall one at that, even for a member of her species. She stood at least a head taller than Drake, which meant Anderson was only at about chest level with her. Her raven black hair was swept back over pointed ears that flicked every now and then but mostly stood erect. Her face was carefully clean with very little makeup. A light layer of beige lipstick and a small smudge of eye shadow were all she allowed herself. Very modest. She was dressed in a prim and proper red jacket, all the brass buttons shined to a gleam and the fabric completely stain free. Her white breeches were bleached and tucked away perfectly into spot-free boots. She looked every bit the prim and proper officers who captained the Navy's powerful ships and commanded the marine brigades from afar. But the two marines, both experienced veterans, saw several immediate tell-tales that told them this was not the case. A set of lieutenant's bars was pinned to her collar, signifying she was an officer alright. Her uniform was too clean, however, to be a line officer, and if she was a rearguard soldier then she wouldn't be up here in the Box. And, finally, her eyes were curious, searching and slightly disgusted.

She was fresh to the field, then. A newbie officer. And that was bad news indeed.

Fuller stood from behind his desk, clearing his throat before remarking "Lieutenant Drake, Sergeant Anderson, thank you for attending. I've asked you both here because we've had a stroke of good luck. Please, take a seat."

Both marines nodded, and swiftly let their packs down, setting their weapons off to the side. Any other camp and these things would have been confiscated by the MPs. Fuller, however, usually reserved the casting off of such foolishness for his one percent of rule-breaking most days.

Once both marines had stripped their equipment off and removed their helmets, they both pulled up rickety wooden chairs. The unnamed lieutenant, meanwhile, continued to stand, gazing at the soldiers with something approaching utter contempt. Lieutenant Drake, as her equal in rank, ignored her as he could afford to, but Todd Anderson glared back hatefully. Just what he needed, another spit shine officer to come and try to 'clean up this unit.' She'd probably stick around for a few weeks before her head got taken off by a sniper or a plasma mortar vaporized her. He'd just have to put up with her for a little while then…

Fuller cleared his throat, and Anderson snapped his head around, watching the canid carefully as he inspected another holopad before saying "Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Rebecca Avernall. She's just been assigned to us out of academy, and I for one am relieved to have a fresh perspective around here." Though Fuller's voice didn't betray any emotion, a close look at his face told of just how much he really thought of that notion; absolutely nothing.

Fuller continued. "We also received several other reinforcements. Lieutenant Drake, I understand your company is the most under strength?"

Ryan cleared his throat before replying "Yessir, Colonel. Third Battalion, First Company. Down to about sixty effectives out of two-hundred. We also lost Captain Yallon last month."

Fuller nodded, eyes still on the pad. "I'm aware. Currently, you are our most experienced officer in First Company. As such, I'm immediately appointing you command of the company and the rank of captain. Shouldn't be too hard to adjust to, you've been doing it since Yallon ate it."

Just like that. A promotion to captain right out of the blue. Drake and Anderson were both blinking in slack jawed surprise, trying to comprehend just what Fuller had said, when the canid reached into his desk drawer and extracted a battered pair of captain's insignia pins, sliding them across to Drake. "These are stock, so they're not good quality. It's not official yet, not by any means, but it will be…in a few years. The red tape will probably keep Yallon in command on paper until this damn war is over…"

The colonel grumbled under his breath for a time as he consulted his holopad, seeming to ignore how Drake reverently picked up the pins. This promotion, unofficial though it was, made Ryan Drake the youngest captain in the entire brigade. Suddenly, a comms link appeared on the desk, and both Drake and Anderson looked up at Fuller, who pulled his hand back, his face blank. "You'll need that. It was Yallon's. Now it's yours. Use it well."

Drake nodded, taking the earpiece as well, holding it as though it were made of gold. Fuller grunted, glancing at Todd. "As for you, Anderson. You've just received a promotion to sergeant, that right?"

Todd swallowed down his bitterness, knowing what was coming as he stiffly replied "Yessir."

Fuller nodded. "Then I was right. Sergeant, I cannot promote you to lieutenant when you've spent such little time in your current rank. As such, Lieutenant Avernall will be taking charge of your platoon, ah…"

_"Fifth, sir,"_ said TAD from Fuller's side. _"Third Battalion, First Company, Fifth Platoon."_

Fuller nodded, ignoring the fact that the android had cut him off and continued "Right. Avernall, you're in charge of them. Sergeant Anderson here will be your second in command."

The felinid nodded. "Understood, Colonel Sir," she said, her tones melodic and groomed. She obviously came from a family of good breeding and influence. So why the hell was she on the frontline?

Anderson personally didn't care. She might have been one of those spoiled brats who thought they could be a big Gods-damned hero even though they had none of the mental preparation. Heroes didn't usually last long on Karinhaus. Maybe she would die quickly and he would get platoon command…

Fuller nodded. "Then if there are no more questions, you all are dismissed. Sergeant Anderson, you will give Lieutenant Avernall a tour of the base before you go to post."

Todd Anderson frowned. "To post, sir?"

"Of course, Sergeant," Fuller replied, dead-panned. "As soon as she is shown to her quarters, she is to accompany you to the trenches immediately to brief your platoon."

There were only two words running through Todd's mind at that point; Well, shit.


End file.
